"So are you going to tell me what's next? Hopefully breakfast." Honestly, food was all I could really think about. I hadn't eaten anything in days.
He smiled and let out a small laugh. "Training is going to be the biggest challenge you've ever faced, but one thing we're not going to do is starve you to death. Let's go." He motioned toward the door. "You're shipping out to camp tonight, and you've got a right to do it on a full stomach."
I followed him through the door and down the same brightly lit corridor I barely remembered stumbling down the day before. The walls were spotless, the floor was polished to a glossy shine. One thing about the marines - everything was immaculate. Much cleaner than the public areas of the Protected Zone, not to mention the filth of the outer sectors.
We walked past about a dozen doors just like the one leading to my room - no doubt more little cubbies filled with new recruits sleeping off various medical abuses and other wear and tear. After a short walk we came to a large dining hall, filled with maybe 30 big tables that could each seat 10-12. It was at most one-quarter full, and though my just awakened brain had focused on breakfast, we were actually catching the tail end of lunch.
Captain Jack wasn't kidding about the full stomach either. Twenty-third century America was a land where virtually everything was rationed to some extent or another. Things were better in the Protected Zone, of course, but food, clothes, and medicine were still subject to various controls and shortages. So now, as a condemned criminal press-ganged into the military as my only escape from execution, I found myself for the first time in my life able to eat as much as I wanted without question.
While I sat and doggedly attacked the slightly obscene pile of food in front of me, Captain Jack grazed on a salad of some sort and tried to keep enough of my attention to let me know what was ahead of me.
"So, after we eat we'll go down to the quartermaster, and you'll be issued your uniform and kit. Then there are a couple of orientation sessions, and after those you can see how much damage you can do to the dinner menu before your transport leaves for New Houston."
So I ate as much as I could, on general principle once my hunger was sated, and then we went down to the quartermaster. A few minutes later I walked out wearing my first uniform, a set of gray training fatigues that looked nothing like Captain Jack's crisp attire. It was the only thing I would wear for a year.
I was given three sets of fatigues, socks, boots, a grooming kit, a bedroll, towel, and a duffel bag to carry it all. I was also given a personal data unit, but it was restricted, and the only things I could access were regulations and selected military history.
The orientation sessions were harmless but boring, and I'm pretty sure I dozed off once or twice during the video presentations. The one thing I did note from the sessions, and this was something no one had mentioned to me up until then, was that the training regimen was six years. Six years!
Training for the Earthbound army was only three months. Sure, it made sense that fighting in space required more skills, but six years? What could possibly take that long?
So I'd be 23 years old before I even started to serve my active duty time, and 33 before I could get my discharge. At 17 that seemed like an eternity. Not that I had a choice. Other than a bullet in the head. Or more accurately, a lungful of poison gas.
After the orientation we went back to the dining hall, with about an hour to go before I had to be on the train. I made a reasonable effort but didn't match my lunchtime performance. I think Captain Jack was a little disappointed.
We stowed our trays, and I got 5 minutes for a quick bathroom break before we walked down to an assembly hall where I finally said my goodbyes to Captain Jack. Watching him walk away I started to feel really alone. I'd only known him for a few days, but he'd been the one thing I could latch on to. Everything around me was unfamiliar, and things were happening quickly. I really had no idea what to expect. A few days ago I was in the Bronx, a member of the Wolfpack who lived by terrorizing a bunch of poor workers. Now, after a close brush with death I was on my way to becoming a marine? To fighting in space? I couldn't get my mind to focus on anything. I was in a state of shock.
The mag-train ride to New Houston was comfortable and quick. Once we cleared the city the train accelerated to 500 kph, so we reached New Houston in less than five hours.
The train car I was in was full of other recruits, all dressed in the same gray fatigues I was wearing. They looked like a pretty motley bunch, but of course I looked that way too. They were mostly men, but about 20% of them were women. We all pretty much kept to ourselves, and there was very little conversation. I don't know how they all ended up here, but most of them looked about as stunned as I was.
It was dark for most of the trip, which was disappointing. I'd never been out of New York, and I would have loved to see some of the scenery. With nothing much to do I slept through most of the ride, and I woke up to the announcement that we would be arriving in fifteen minutes. The trained slowed, and we passed through a large plasti-crete wall and past two security towers before stopping at a long, open platform.
"Alright boys and girls, up! Let's get moving. Now!"
I hadn't even noticed the sergeant enter the car, but there he was, standing in the doorway barking at us in a voice that seemed to be half hostility and half amusement. People started getting up and moving toward the front of the car. I reached up to grab my duffel, as about half the others were doing.
"Don't forget your bags, kiddies! The porters are all busy elsewhere, I'm afraid! Now move your asses. I want everyone out on that platform in three minutes!"
We stumbled out of the crowded car and out onto the platform, milling around aimlessly until the sergeant came over and yelled at us again until we managed to get into a fairly neat line. We marched into one of the buildings where we went through a check in and orientation process that took several hours after which we were led into a large auditorium.
We'd only been sitting a minute when a man walked out onto the stage. He was tall and muscular, with thick black hair speckled gray. He wasn't dressed in the same gray fatigues as we and everyone else we'd seen were wearing. He wore a spotless dark blue coat with polished silver buttons and one platinum star on each shoulder. His neatly creased white pants were tucked into shiny black boots, and a short sword with an intricately carved hilt hung from his waist.
"Hello, and welcome to Camp Puller. My name is Brigadier General Wesley Strummer. As you can see, I've worn my dress blues in honor of your arrival. Take a good look, because you probably won't see another uniform like this unless you graduate. And less than half of you are going to make it that far."
He paused for a few minutes to let that sink in, then continued. "If you don't graduate then you will go back where you came from, and for most of you that wasn't a very pleasant place. Unless of course you die in training. Which will happen to some of you. Maybe a lot of you."
Again, he stopped and let us consider his words. His voice was calm, almost gentle, but without so much as raising his voice he had everyone's complete attention. You could have heard a pin drop in the room.
"Those of you who do graduate will join the most elite combat formation in the history of the world. You will serve wherever you are needed, anywhere in explored space, and you will perform that service with valor and distinction. And after you make your first assault, all of your past crimes and offenses will be wiped clean."
That was the first hopeful thing he'd said. A bit of carrot to go with the stick.